My Aunt LouLane had an old, wise saying: Don't step on a scorpion's tail if you don't want him to sting you. I took a baby step back from Nandy. I had a funny feeling she was just about to sting.
“Have you got a plan for getting Scott out of jail?” she demanded.
Her tone was high-handed and offensive. I didn't want to be stung, but I wasn't going to be bulldozed by a punked-out former debutante. “I have a better question. Why did you tell Coleman that you saw Scott leaving the club at two in the morning?”
“It was the truth.”
“It's one of the main pieces of evidence that tie Scott to the murder.”
“So I've been told.” She pulled at the ring again and the sapphire caught the sunlight, winking blue.
I had a sudden insight into the twisted inner workings of Nandy Shanahan's mind. “You knew that when you told Coleman. You knew you were putting Scott right in the middle of a murder scene.” I was astounded.
“Look, if Scott will only talk to me, I can give him an alibi. I can say we were together, behind the club.”
She smiled, and tiny little chills slipped down my back.
“I can save him, Sarah Booth. All I have to do is say he was with me, making love to me. I can save him, if he'll let me.”
Funny how cold can creep through a person's bones even with the mercury hovering at 102 degrees Fahrenheit. I was still shivering when I got behind the wheel of the roadster and headed toward The Grove. I wanted to talk to my high school friend, Tammy Odom, better known these days as Madame Tomeeka, psychic. Tammy and I went back a long way, and I knew I could count on her to tell me how the black community was reacting to Scott and the two goodwill ambassadors from Scott's prison past. There was also the little matter of my dream. Tammy had no formal training in dream analysis, but she had something better. She had a gift.
There was a big Expedition in Tammy's front yard, so I parked half a block down the street and waited. In less than ten minutes, Vergie Caswell came out of Tammy's, her face hidden by a huge golf umbrella that sported the logo of The Club. She peeped out from under the umbrella, casting glances left and right, then scurried into her SUV and tore off down the street like the Hound of the Baskervilles was in hot pursuit.
I hustled up to Tammy's door and gave it a knock. She was frowning when she opened it, but her lips did a reversal and ended up in a smile as soon as she saw me.
“I didn't have another appointment today, and I was pissed off that someone just dropped by. Folks think they can come in whenever they take a notion.” She held the screen open for me to enter. I caught a whiff of something good cooking, and I almost ran over Tammy as she led the way to the kitchen.
“What is that?” I asked, sniffing. My acute olfactory abilities led me straight to the oven.
“Sarah Booth, you know good and well I'm baking a roast.” She was getting plates and silverware out as she talked. “Would you like to stay for lunch?”
“Oh, I don't want to be a bother.”
She threw a dishtowel at me. “Sit down. Or better yet, make us a couple of glasses of iced tea.”
I did as she instructed, and in a few moments, we were seated across from each other, plates heaped with food and big glasses of iced tea sweating in front of us.
“I saw Vergie hightailing it out of here.” I was dying of curiosity. Vergie Caswell was four years older than me, but she'd been a prominent figure in my development. In her senior year, she'd been drum majorette, class beauty, campus queen, most popular, cutest, and most likely to succeed. That left friendliest and most athletic for the rest of the female population to thrash it out over. Vergie had married a landed Buddy Clubber and they were raising hounds, horses, and hoodlums about five miles west of town.
“She looked better as a brunette,” Tammy allowed. She lifted a piece of tender roast to her mouth.
“Tobias junior isn't in trouble again, is he?” Last I'd heard, the fourteen-year-old hellion had hot-wired the SUV, driven across the Delta to Mississippi State University at Starkville, broken into the university's experimental agricultural station, and stolen ten top-grade marijuana plants with a potential street value of close to twenty-five thousand dollars. When he was captured, he'd only said that for a cow college, State grew damn good dope.
“Would you pass the butter?” Tammy said.
“Vergie looked upset. I hope it isn't her health.”
Tammy pointed to the salt and pepper. “I should have put just a little more garlic on the roast, don't you think?”
I sighed. Tammy was worse than a priest. She never talked about her clients. I was wasting my breath. “I need some advice,” I said, handing over the condiments to her.
“As long as it's about your business and not someone else's.” She smiled, but she was dead serious.
“My business. And Ida Mae Keys'.”
The smile slipped off her face. “I was so sorry to hear about Ivory. He was a good man.”
I nodded. “Everyone seems to think so.”
“I know you make your living investigating cases, but this is one I wish you'd stay out of.”
“That's not an original opinion,” I noted.
“So what do you want to know?”
“How the black community feels toward Scott. I—”
“Angry. Folks are angry. They feel Scott stabbed Ivory in the back. Literally and figuratively. They think he's a no-good, racist user.”
“Don't hold back,” I said.
“You know about Scott before he came here?” she asked me. “About his so-called music?”
“Are you referring to his rap music?”
She snorted. “I don't call that noise music, and neither do most of the people around here. It's all there, on the Internet. He can't deny it.”
“I don't think he'd try.”
“Because in his heart, he's still a racist Nazi!”
I reached across the table and gently touched her trembling hand. She was very upset. “No, that's not what I meant. I just don't think Scott would try to deny what he's done in the past. I'm not saying he believes it was right. I'm just saying he wouldn't try to lie about it.”
“It's going to take a real makeover artist to paint that man as noble,” Tammy said bitterly.
Tammy normally wasn't a woman who let emotion rule her. I decided to shift the conversation slightly. “Have you seen those two motorcycle guys?”
“You mean his two cellmates?” She pushed her plate back, her food barely touched. “It's a good thing my grandbaby Dahlia isn't here or I'd be worried they'd run her down.”
Dahlia, named after my own home, wasn't toddling yet. But I got Tammy's point. “Those two make me nervous.”
“They've come here to defend their brother. They ride down the street trying to start a fight.” She clenched her napkin in her fist. “They want trouble, Sarah Booth. And if they don't stop pushing at us, they're going to get it.”
There it was, the them and us. My own appetite died. “I'd like to find out more about them.”
“It shouldn't be hard to find them. Just follow the trail of empty beer bottles.”
I'd actually come to talk to Tammy about my dream, but now I had a bigger concern. “This case won't come between us, will it?”
She kept her gaze on her food. “Scott Hampton is a bad man, Sarah Booth. You know, my mama always said that if you lay down with dogs, you'll get up with fleas.”
“I know he looks guilty. I wouldn't have taken this case if Ida Mae hadn't insisted.”
Tammy lifted her dark eyes to stare into mine. “That poor woman. She's caught in the middle.”
“By helping her, I'm caught, too.”
“Are you sure of your own motives, Sarah Booth?”
I could have taken offense, but I didn't. “I'm sure that Scott doesn't want my help.”
“Be careful. That's all I can tell you.”
The slash between her eyebrows told me exactly how worried she was. “Can you see something in the future?”
“I see a world of trouble coming from this. For everyone involved.” She hesitated. “And I see danger. There's not a clear picture yet, but before this is over, folks will see violence.”
“I'll be careful,” I promised her, determined not to let her see how her words affected me. Then I told her about my dream, about the clock/calendar that kept running backwards to the mid-sixties.
She shook her head. “Even your subconscious is aware that we're about to repeat history. You're warning yourself, Sarah Booth. All I can tell you is to listen up.”
A timid tap came from the front door, and Tammy slowly rose to her feet.
“I thought you didn't have another appointment today.”
“I don't. I'll tell them to make one and come back.”
I stood up. It was time for me to leave. There wasn't anything left to say between us, for the moment.
I walked with her to the front door. When she opened it, I had an impulse to step back into the kitchen. Connie Peters stood at the screen, her round face thinner than I'd ever seen it. Her sundress hung from shoulders that were sculpted and thin. She must have dropped thirty pounds since I'd seen her last.
“I know I don't have an appointment,” Connie said, pressing the knuckles of one hand with the other. “I have to talk to you, Ms. Tomeeka. Please.”
Tammy opened the screened door for her to enter and held it open until I took the hint and walked through it.
“Sarah Booth,” Connie said, flushing. “I didn't expect to see you here. Getting some leads for your new case from the spirit world?”
She wasn't being snide. She smiled, and I was aware of the lines of tension around her mouth. I was also aware of the boulder of guilt that fell squarely on my shoulders.
“I'm just talking to an old friend,” I said, walking down the steps. “Good to see you, Connie.”
“Sarah Booth?”
I turned around to face her, hoping that my expression gave away nothing of what I was feeling.
“I know you and Coleman have become good friends this past year. I'd like to talk to you sometime, when you have time.” She blinked, and I was suddenly afraid she'd cry.
“Sure. Give me a call.” I walked back to my car and drove away, wanting more than anything to point the roadster in any direction other than the one I felt myself traveling.
11
It was probably guilt, angst, and a desire for punishment that sent me out to Bilbo Lane at eighty miles an hour. I'd made the assumption that Scott's buddies from the Big House were probably camping at his digs. I saw the bikes as I turned down the driveway, which was sprouting a healthy growth of briars and weeds. The ditch was littered with beer bottles, and I wondered if Scott was a slob or if his friends drank all of their meals.
My wiser self attempted to send up an alert, and I even considered turning the car around and leaving. But then the biker I assumed was called Spider walked out on the front porch of the little cottage and saw me. To turn tail would have revealed my fear of him.
I drove to the cottage and got out of the car.
He looked me up and down, his gaze lingering on all of the places that made a woman feel violated. “Scott's developed some fine-looking friends since he left us,” Spider said over his shoulder, and Ray-Ban, wearing his signature sunglasses, stepped out the door.
Spider directed his next comment to Ray-Ban, but loud enough for me to hear. “She sure don't look like those women who get off on fucking ex-cons. I guess you get a different class of woman when you're a big blues musician.”
“Mrs. Keys has hired me to prove Scott's innocence,” I said, one hand still on the fender of the roadster as if the car could protect me. The two men made me nervous, and the maddening thing was that they did it deliberately. They were all about demeaning and intimidation. Anger put a little starch in my spine and I walked up to the porch, casting a disparaging glance at the litter of hamburger wrappers, fried chicken boxes, and beer bottles.
“We'll have to clean this up before Scott gets out,” Spider said. He turned to Ray-Ban and laughed. “He always was a neat freak. Kept his cell spic and span.”
For some reason, that made me feel better. “You both claim to be friends of Scott. What you're doing around town isn't helping him.”
“That's from your point of view,” Spider said. He grinned, but his gray eyes were not amused. “I learned a long time ago that making folks understand there's a price to be paid for their actions is a lot more effective than going around all mealy-mouthed and pleasant.”
“I don't know where you're from, but that doesn't work around here.” I was angry, but I was also not an idiot. I had no intention of pushing these men too far.
“I'm from—” He took two quick steps down to the yard. He was beside me so fast I didn't have time to withdraw. “Hell. Or at least that's what these folks are gonna believe before I'm through with them.”
On the porch, Ray-Ban laughed in one big hoot. He eased to the top of the steps.
I was very sorry I'd come here.
“You know anything about training dogs?” Spider asked.
“I didn't come here to discuss dog training. I—”
He cut me off. “You can treat an animal nice and sweet, and maybe half the time they'll do what you say. But you put fear into them, you make them understand they don't do what you say and they're gonna suffer, then they'll mind. Not half the time. Not two-thirds of the time. But ever' time you open you mouth. That's the way you make animals fall into line.”
“You're wrong about that. And we're not dealing with animals.” His inference was too clear to ignore.
“That's a matter of opinion, Miss Sarah Booth Delaney of Dahlia House.”
I hadn't told him my name, but he knew it. He wanted me to know he knew my name, and where I lived, and all that it implied.
“Scott's in serious trouble. A large portion of the community, both black and white, respected Ivory Keys. They want to punish the person who killed him. If they continue to believe Scott is that person, he's going to be convicted, or worse.”
“I guess it's up to me and Ray-Ban to make the folks around here understand that if Scott goes to prison, there's gonna be some of that spontaneous combustion.” The two men laughed loud and long. “There'll be some fires and some other accidents. Folks might even consider what's gonna happen as acts of God. A real angry God.”
That set both of them off into spasms of laughter.
“That's a good one, Spider. Acts of God.” Ray-Ban was about to fall down laughing.
“You aren't helping Scott.” Repetition might work, but I doubted it.
“We're the only friends he's got around here. Everyone else wants to lynch him.” Spider's eyes glittered. “I've heard the talk. Folks would string him up without a second thought. They won't give him a fair trial. He's tried and convicted right this minute. This trial is just a formality—just a way for that power-hungry D.A. to get his mug on TV. You know that and so do I. So just make it a point to stay out of our way. We're gonna help our friend the way that works best for us.”
“You're going to help him right into a conviction.” I was wasting my breath. “If you don't stop trying to terrorize people, you're going to end up in a cell right beside him. And then folks will say the three of you are thugs who need to be locked away. Your actions justify everything people think about Scott.”
“Then let 'em think they're scared, because before this is over, they sure as hell will be.”
It was pointless. Spider and Ray-Ban weren't going to listen to reason. Maybe Scott could talk some sense into them before the damage they did was irreparable.
My greeting at the jail was rather like a dip in a Himalayan river. Frostbite began to set in three seconds after I got there.
“What now?” Scott asked.
“You need to tell your friends to settle down, or even better, get out of town.”
He shook his head. “I can't do that.”
“Why not?” I was genu
inely puzzled.
“I don't owe you explanations.”
I'd had it. “You don't owe me a damn thing, and I owe you even less. But your friends are making it worse for you and for Mrs. Keys. Why can't you simply tell them to hit the road? Things are complicated enough.”
Scott watched me a moment, as if he was making up his mind about something. “Okay, I'll tell you. But you won't understand.”
“Try me.”
“Back in prison, Spider and Ray-Ban were the only two friends I had. We looked out for each other. And now they're here to help me. You don't order your friends out of town when they've come to give help.”
“They aren't helping. They're hurting you. A lot. They're stirring up a lot of racial tension that isn't going to do anything but make it harder, for you and for everyone in this community.”
“I told you you wouldn't understand.” He came up to the bars and stared directly into my eyes. “In prison, a solitary person doesn't stand a chance. If you don't have friends or a group to back you up, you become everybody's bitch. That's just the way it is.”
I swallowed but kept my mouth shut.
“I wasn't a badass, or at least not the kind that counted in prison. I hadn't killed or raped or done violence. I was in on a drug charge, and I was upper-class white. No one had to paint a target on me. Every man in that prison took one look at me and began to decide what service I would provide. Walking into that place, I knew I had to align myself with a stronger force, or I'd be shaving my legs and wearing perfume.”
“And so you joined the Bonesmen? For protection?” Even I wasn't quite that naíve.
“There wasn't a bridge club available.” His sarcasm was quick and angry. “The Bonesmen were a formidable presence in the prison. I couldn't join the Muslims or the blacks. I was from the wrong background. Believe it or not, racism isn't just a white thing. I joined the Bonesmen because they provided safety, and because I was a racist. At that time.”
“At that time?”
“That was before I met Ivory. That was when I was still reacting instead of thinking.”
It was the first hint that there was more to Scott than hatred and meanness. “Tell me about your rap days.”
Crossed Bones Page 9